To Describe a Gamemaker
by Hannah the Scribe
Summary: (Before the Music Dies Legacy) Eight words to describe eight people with one thing in common―they're the Gamemakers for the 405th Hunger Games. Panem, prepare to step into their lives and meet the people who are murdering your children.
1. Friendly

_Friendly_

_(adjective; kind and pleasant)_

_Kaye Amicus, Gamemaker, Muttation Specialist_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

_Five minutes._

I quickly count out eight coasters from the stack on the counter and slide them all into place on the conference table, careful that they don't cover up any of the displays.

_Four minutes._

Pouring the last of the coffee into a bland white mug, I start to set them all on top of the coasters.

_Three minutes._

As I finish placing the last one, I put the wicker basket filled with fresh bakery items in the center of the table, complete with a pile of napkins.

_Two minutes._

I walk over to Lavender's seat at the front of the room and lean over to press a few buttons on the touch-screen of the table, making the day's agenda come to the front of everyone's display.

_One minute._

I plop myself down into my seat and wait, just as I do every day, and look out the opposite wall that's completely made of crystal glass.

The sun has only risen recently, the sky above the Capitol clear and giving off a faint rosy glow. It's going to be a good day, I think, with the Gamemaker panel meeting to go over the last details for the four-hundred fifth Hunger Games. Of course, there's not too much to do, now. The Reaping is tomorrow.

I hear a mumbled, "Morning, Kaye," coming from the doorway, and Lavender brushes past me to her seat.

"Mornin'!" She cringes at the volume―not a morning person, and never one for loud noises to begin with―and takes a few sips of coffee, eyes half-closed. Before she can answer, Thespian comes in through the automatic sliding door behind and to the left of me.

"Kaye!" he greets, giving me an affectionate slap on the shoulder that almost sends my chair rolling into the table. Lavender gets the same act, almost choking on the coffee as Thespian sits next to her. I can't help but giggle a little at Lavender's tight expression.

"Morning, Thespian," she says through gritted teeth.

You can tell that he's about to make some kind of joke about going easy on the caffeine, just like he always does, but Misty comes in before he can, giving off her usual sort of relaxed, calming effect on the room as she too finds her place. "Good morning, everyone."

"See, Lav, even 'wise old owl' Misty can find some good in the morning," says Thespian. "Always something, eh, Misty?"

"Don't call me that," Lavender scolds under her breath at the nickname, "Lav".

"I suppose so," Misty answers, directing the words at Thespian.

There are a few moments of quiet and I relax into my chair a little bit. Lavender's typing in commands to the table furiously, Thespian's still looking amused, and Misty pulls out a book. I hear the whisk of the sliding door again and this time it's Francisco that enters, wordlessly dropping into his seat. If Lavender notices, she doesn't show it, Misty nods in his direction, knowing he's not one for conversation, and Thespian says, "Looks like you and Lav both woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Lavender shoots him a warning glance, mumbles something none of us can hear, and goes back to typing. Francisco only scowls. "As every day," he says simply, and I can't tell if it's a comment on our Head Gamemaker or if he's pointing out that he's quiet all the time, not just today, which is true enough.

Rainshadow comes in, piping up, "Hey." Somehow she manages to make the one word come out so fast that it's scarcely comprehensible, but most of us have grown used to Rainshadow and her… quickness, by now. Before I've even fully registered that she's in the room, however, she's seated in her place next to me, a roll in front of her along with the coffee that she's already gulping down.

She gets little response to the greeting, and eventually I say, "So, how is everyone?"

"Great!" Rainshadow throws in immediately.

"Oh, fine," Misty says, before the silence after the first answer can get too long.

"Okay," Thespian says. "If it weren't for all that damn Monday traffic…"

"Agreed," Rainshadow says, nodding as she sets her mug down again. "If it's possible to drive any slower than those people do, I don't know how anyone gets to work on time."

Next to come in, and last, are Glisten and Ritter, at the same time. They both take their seats, exchanging greetings with everyone that responds. As silence settles again, several people start to look at Lavender, as now that everyone's here we can begin the meeting.

While Lavender's still in her own world, typing, Glisten tosses her metallic-pink hair over her shoulder, Francisco smirks, and Misty gives a slight cough. Finally, it's Thespian that says, "Angry at the table, Lav?"

At first I expect her to snap at him, but she doesn't. Her typing gradually slows until she stops altogether, and she looks up slowly, slowly, a slight blush creeping onto her face as she takes in the panel of us staring at her.

"Ah, no… sorry," she says, giving a clearly forced grin. The half-embarrassed, half-surprised look on her face is priceless. I look at the ground, letting light pink-and-blonde strands of hair fall in my eyes to hide my smile.

Her dark-green eyes flick down to whatever she has on her table-screen and then she looks back up at us. It's easy to tell that her first year of being a Gamemaker―the _Head _Gamemaker, no less―is starting to get to her. Misty says that your first year is the hardest, before you get used to things. It's my first year, too, and I know that some people worry about me, but right now, I think I'm fine.

"Er, right, then," Lavender says, a bit timidly. "Everyone ready to start?"

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	2. Caring

_Caring_

_(adjective; displaying kindness and concern for others)_

_Mistina "Misty" Freeweather, Former Head Gamemaker, Meteorologist_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

A long, narrow hallway looms in front of me with its sleek, heavy metal doors and plain décor. The ceiling softly glows a light neon blue, providing the even and dim lighting.

I start down it, halting at the door labeled "Head Gamemaker Control Room" in block white letters. It's securely closed, but if I know Lavender, it won't be locked. Knocking lightly, I stand back, knowing the doors open out to prevent any accidental damage done to the endless screens and displays inside. I don't worry when it doesn't open right away―this is common at the Gamemaking Center, always being in the middle of something, especially for the Head Gamemaker.

When it does open, it's the slow, mechanical way that indicates this was initiated from a control panel. I'm inside before it's even started to close again, and after a few moments Lavender says, "So, how are the children doing?"

It's then that I realize she's staring at a blank screen, not watching the Games. The door clicks shut behind me.

"Seven fatalities so far, several more injured." It's this answer she wants, not a way of getting around it.

"Is it over?"

"Lavender, they just started."

I briefly wonder if she's finally gone over the edge before she replies, "I mean the first battle. Is it over?"

"Yes. For the most part, yes, it's over."

Another nod, and she still doesn't avert her eyes from the black display. "Has Kaye activated any mutts yet?"

I sigh. "You can come to the Symposium and ask her yourself. Everyone else is there already." It's the best place to be when we need to discuss something in the Games, but also possibly take quick action, a combination not best done in a cramped control room or place where we can't launch too many attacks.

"Please just answer me." There's no question that it's one of her orders, but her voice is slowly declining in volume until she's almost whispering.

"The snakes in the caves are ready… the bouncing mutt's in Section Two… all the normal ones are on." I have to think to come up with the complete list.

"And the toucans?"

"We're still debating," I say honestly, knowing she doesn't like hearing of arguments among the Gamemakers. "The Seven-Eight alliance is in place, but so soon after the bloodbath? Kaye wanted your opinion."

She nods again but doesn't offer a comment.

"Why don't you come down to the Symposium and watch with everyone else?" I suggest, steering the conversation down a different road.

There's hesitation but no answer, and then, "I have to ask Francisco about the ghosts."

These sort of obscure answers aren't uncommon from her―or from any of us, for that matter―so I only nod. When the silence starts to get too long, I say, "Why is it you don't like watching, Lavender? You scarcely looked at the recap of the Reapings or the opening ceremonies. You didn't want to have to go to the training or interviews. Yet you wanted to be Head Gamemaker. Why?"

She shrugs at first, then elaborates: "There's only so much we can do for them, Misty."

Silence for a few moments acknowledges the fact that she isn't allowed to say that. No law can truly prevent her―or any Gamemaker―from letting the tributes grow on them, but they _can_ limit what we're permitted to say aloud and what we're not. I don't bother pointing this out to her; surely, she already knows.

"We all look at it like a game. That's what it is, or what it's supposed to be. All a game. Nothing that matters." At her last words, she swivels her chair so she's looking at me. "But they're _kids. _They have _lives. _They have _families _and people who _love _them."

She turns again and pulls up a picture on the screen in front of her, beckoning me over to look. "Lina. District Twelve. Has her best friend, York, and her mother."

I feel a slight pang, knowing her point is right.

She switches the picture. "Fabian. District One. A little sister and his ex-girlfriend. From what I saw in training, starting to care about his district partner, too."

She goes to switch the picture again yet I say, "I know what you mean. Are you saying you hate your job?"

Lavender actually laughs, the first time I've seen her do so in quite a while. "Maybe I do. Maybe I just don't understand why we still do this. And maybe I just hate having to wake up before noon." Her tone shifts. "Does this get any easier, Misty?"

"That all depends," I answer. "Some days you realize what it is you're doing and you hate yourself for it; most of all, you hate that you _like _doing it." I hear myself sigh but feel a bit disconnected for a moment. "And some days you're just excited because you finally thought of an arena idea, or you're just too busy to think about it."

I've been both a Gamemaker and a Head Gamemaker before. Just last year, I was sitting in her place before I stepped down. I finally thought that it was someone else's turn, I suppose. Next year I'll be retiring, and another will take on my job. At this rate, Lavender will still be Head Gamemaker, and she'll still have Thespian and Kaye and all the rest to help her.

"I think I've had all those days already." The words are grim, and it's hard to remind myself that I'm talking to a nineteen-year-old. It makes me think of my son Deman and my granddaughter, Viviana, scarcely eleven but trying so hard to be older because she feels she has to be.

"I know," I answer. "It all depends when you ask, doesn't it?"

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	3. Talented

_Talented_

_(adjective; having a natural skill or aptitude for something)_

_Thespian Albright, Gamemaker, Games Announcer and Interview Host_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

And here we go.

I've scarcely even _touched_ the door when it flies open, and the doorknob slips out of Mom's small hand, banging loudly against the wall. She looks over me disapprovingly. "Tut-tut. You're late."

"Well I was in a _meeting_, Mom, about a new opportunity, actually―"

"Oh, yes; of course. What a _burden_ it must be on you to have to come home every once in a while!" I resist the urge to mention that her "favorite child", Laya, is rarely home either, but Mom doesn't seem to care about _that_. "Always busy at a job you don't deserve, that's what you are!" With an overly exasperated sigh she whirls back to face the main room of the house, heading towards the kitchen area. Wait; don't tell me―yup, she's making "family dinner", yet again.

"Thespian, my boy!" Dad swoops in before I can really take another step. "How've you been?"

"Great," I say, and add, loud enough to make sure Mom can hear it over the clatter of pots and pans, "Lav actually mentioned a new sort of job to me today."

"Really? Well, that's wonderful―but, er… what is it?"

"There needs to be a new Interview Host, for after the Games. Guess who got the job?"

Just then there's a quiet knock on the door, which I never even noticed closed, and Dad opens it to find Laya standing on the threshold. I probably haven't seen her in months but she looks exactly the same to me, with the same crystal-like blue-green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair. And exhausted, as always.

Mom comes rushing over so she can fuss over her while Dad and I move out of their way and I plop myself down on the couch across from Dad, who's rolling his eyes at the hilarious exchange between Mom and my darling little sister. Mom acts like Laya's the most brilliant person on the planet; she's _very _clear on the fact that she wants her to take my job as a Gamemaker. I even tried to help her with that, said I'd get her an internship at the Gamemaking Center if she wanted it―oh, how I love the interns―but, no. She wants to focus on college and her major: literature, of all things. How impractical if she's going to go through with Mom's perfect little plan for her.

"Now, what's all this about hosting the interviews?" Dad says.

"Oh―Lav said I could host all the post-Games events, ever since Edalene…" I don't finish the sentence because I really don't want to mention what happened there; don't want him to start asking questions, but he seems to dismiss the subject.

"And," I add, "there are all the events _next year_." I say the words when Mom and Laya are quiet for a few seconds so they can hear that I mention having a job next year, which I will. I'm the only person on the Gamemaking panel that could really be a good Games Announcer. Plus, I'm on fairly good terms with our Head Gamemaker. No reason for me to get fired.

Mom starts up her conversation again, ushering Laya over to the kitchen so she can talk while she cooks.

It's not long later that we're all seated around the classic dining table, eating dinner with only little snippets of conversation passing between us. "Thespian, don't you think you could stand to lose a few pounds, dear?" Mom says at one point, setting her silverware down to focus on me, shaking her head as I eat.

I shrug. It's a somewhat-true statement, but who cares? Almost everyone here in the Capitol could.

"Healthy, that's what I say," Dad puts in. "It's just not _natural_, everyone running around with no meat on them―" He stops himself when the look in Mom's eyes grows cold, because she assumes it's a deliberate comment on Laya, who, with her haphazard schedule, probably doesn't eat sound meals very often. _Please, _I think. _Give me a break._

A bit of heavy silence settles in, with my parents glowering at their plates while Laya and I exchange a few "here they go again" glances.

Finally Dad changes the topic, saying, "Did y'hear about Thespian's new job?" The wording comes out slightly wrong and Mom raises an eyebrow.

"Oh? New job?"

"Well, it's not a _new _one," I put in quickly, and then tell her what I told Dad earlier.

Even with this she doesn't seem happy, and I note Laya shifting her eyes lower and lower until she stares at the floor so that Mom won't try to talk to her. "I understand the honor of the job," Mom says finally. "But I don't think you're quite cut out for―"

"He is!" Dad cuts in. "The boy's got _talent_, Tina, any blind idiot could see that!"

Mom rises swiftly from her seat at the table, brushing her hands on her apron before setting them firmly on the table, leaning forwards slightly to make up for her small figure. "No," she almost hisses. "He doesn't. He has _luck. Luck _and _favor_. Different than…" She waves vaguely and almost spits out, "_Talent_."

This argument has happened so many times it's really stopped affecting me. Mom will always prefer Laya, and Dad will always prefer me. They'll never agree on it, who should have the Gamemaker job when there are so few to offer.

"If he weren't up for it, he wouldn't have a job by now! It's been years!"

"Yeah," I add. "Miracle that I haven't really gotten on Lav's nerves yet. 'Cept maybe in the mornings."

Mom falls back into her chair, looking a bit defeated, and Laya says, "Food's really great, Mom."

A bit of the tension eases, though Mom easily brushes off the comment. "What? Oh, yes, glad you think so."

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	4. Prepared

_Prepared_

_(adjective; in condition for immediate action, use, or progress)_

_Ritter Denken, Gamemaker, Psychologist and Environmental Manager_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

A new window pops up on my desk, the edges a flashing crimson that tell me it's urgent.

_ DAPT meeting in 5_

I check the sender; Misty. Lavender must've told her to send out the message. I wonder if this meeting was already scheduled or it's something new, but can't remember. I'm not exactly known for having the perfect memory span.

Jumping up, I start opening drawers and files, pulling out my bag and shoving whatever I may need in it at random―AT, stylus, the rare physical print-out. I call into the hallway, "I need an intern here NOW!"

Two appear at once: Quicksilver and Forsythia. "I need one of you to go to Kaye's office and get the elevation maps; bring 'em straight to DAPT for me." Nodding, they both disappear down the hall, leaving me to wonder how I could be such an idiot to leave the maps behind when I showed them to Kaye. Regardless, I grab my bag and head out.

Because of the late notice, it looks like everyone's beat me to the meeting; but… wait… no, I only count seven of us. Head Gamemaker's missing―interesting. And apparently I'm not the only one who finds it so, as Glisten, Rainshadow, Kaye and Francisco seem to be talking about it, the first two doing most of the talking. I quickly join in.

"And all this DAPT, or, sorry―" Glisten falls into a bad imitation of Lavender's voice "―'Designated Arena Planning Time' cr―" Thespian shoots her a look, even though he seems to be talking to Misty. See, we all sort of have this inside joke about not swearing or making "certain jokes" around Kaye, because she's pretty much the only one of us who never has. I can't even remember exactly how or when it started, but it was well before this year's Reapings, certainly.

"This is what we get for having a nineteen-year-old as a Head Gamemaker," I mutter. "Hiring _kids _now, they are. Barely even 'out of the Reaping', as everyone says…"

Misty jumps in, seeming something she rarely does―angry. It takes a lot to get her worked up, but she can be _very _protective over Lavender; I don't know, maybe it's a Head Gamemaker thing. Either way, I tune out what she's saying and instead reach for the elevation maps that the interns brought here. At least I can trust them on that.

My thoughts turn to the events of the Games yesterday, the bloodbath, the fight between the Careers and the District Seven-Eight alliance, ending in the death of the girl from Seven. I was hoping she'd go further, so I could see if there was anything else to learn about her selective-mutism deal. But the Games must go on. _Who needs life when you have death? What would love be without hatred, happiness without grief?_

Lavender comes sweeping in with her usual brisk manner, and the argument/discussion about her stops as everyone makes a wise move, and shuts up. I let my bag drop and fall into my seat as all the windows organize themselves on my display.

The lights go off, the table's brightness slowly increasing so that we can see it better. Thanks to that, the faces of all of us Gamemakers are illuminated, but not much else.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lavender says, "welcome to the Arena of North, East, South, and West."

I was aware before that these walls could be video screens, but even I gasp and gape in awe as the table display fades, leaving the walls as the only lighting. It appears as if we are all but one tribute standing on their plate at the Cornucopia.

"Great Panem, Lav! How―?"

"Explains why you were late."

"You didn't even hint at it!"

Only Thespian, Francisco and Kaye are able to form words for a few moments. I'm not among them. I've been a Gamemaker for years, but never, _ever_, have I seen something like this done before. It's like we've finished the arena already, and are watching the Games themselves from a tribute's perspective. From the Cornucopia view, even with the other tribute plates vacant, I'd say maybe… someone from Five?

When I turn to look behind me, there's land going one direction, a different landscape taking up most of the wall to my left. The sky―ceiling―above is a brilliant azure, with fast-moving cumulus clouds. I glance down at the floor to see grass that looks so real I could just touch it. The arena has come to life.

Part of me wants so badly to know how she pulled this one off, but my thoughts stray too much for me to ask. The childish part of me doesn't want to know, just wants to bask in the perfection of it all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot our Head Gamemaker nodding at Thespian, and he says, "Five… four…"

Most of us join in for, "Three… two…"

Only Thespian speaks last: "_One_."

The gong goes off, and then the wall displays fade, the table coming to life again, and Lavender Flame has seven shocked Gamemakers staring at her.

_Let the four-hundred sixth Hunger Games begin, _I think to myself. If the actual Games are anything like what I just saw, we'll definitely top this year's performance, and probably the work of most other Gamemakers before us. My negative thoughts on Lavender are blocked out. Panem doesn't see us―the insane ones―working day and night to create the ultimate fight, so what does it matter what we do here? All anyone knows of us is the final result.

Glancing down at the table, I can see the familiar arena design, a bit more mundane in its usual form of maps and scattered notes I've saved. The basic shapes and lines and dimensions are all still there, but not so… _real_. I'm left with the feeling that we're going to see the arena from this new perspective again, though, and I have to say, I'm looking forward to it.

"Eager to start the next Games already, huh, Lav?" Thespian asks.

We all laugh at that.

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	5. Quick

_Quick_

_(adjective; moving fast or doing something in a short time)_

_Rainshadow Mariella Delirium, Gamemaker, Fine Editor_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Being at the Gamemaking Center "after hours" is slightly creepy―very slightly; well, when you think about all the mutts and stuff―I mean, _that's _enough to creep anyone out, don't you think? The whole idea of knowing that inside the building itself, there's only you and seven other people, with most of the lights out and everyone gone for the night―interns, janitors, security, office staff―not to mention all the now-locked doors and the _silence_! You feel like you're walking through a ghost town.

It's the fear that keeps me sprinting all the way to the Symposium, almost tripping down the last flight of stairs as I burst into the room that's technically a basement―also weird, makes you feel like we're in danger or something. Misty, Kaye, Lavender, Thespian, and Francisco have beaten me here, all gathered around a large screen on one of the walls and talking in murmured voices. In seconds I'm watching as well, and the message has in no way prepared me for the chaos I see going on. It's the Careers and the "Alliance of the Mockingjays"―as they call themselves, what an odd name―in the middle of a battle on the rough scale of the _bloodbath_.

Kaye has an AT―Arena Tech―tablet in hand, hesitating to press one of the buttons that I can't see.

"No. Don't." Lavender draws her hand away with a gesture just as soft as her words, and the tablet is left on the table.

Two cannons fire before I can process whose they are. A flash of the screen, incited by Francisco, who's now sitting at the live-film editing counter, shows me that it's Callia and Arsin who are dead.

I see now what's pulled up on the AT―a "calamity" list as we call it, options to throw in the arena―mutts, fires, storms―to liven things up. Kaye must've wanted to put one of her mutts for this section into action, but Lavender obviously didn't let her. I can't blame her; this battle's lively enough on its own. Shame, really, that most of these action-packed tributes don't look likely to make it out of this in good shape, if at all.

Glisten and Ritter are here now, the battle on the screen raging on as Francisco and Lavender quickly edit in the different angles and displays during the few second delay between what we see and what _Panem _sees.

Normally Thespian would be doing his announcing, but there isn't any commentary _during _an actual battle like this―only after the end of it, after the last fatalities. If there were more time, if we weren't showing this almost-live, I'd be helping to perfect the film cuts. But there _isn't _more time, not enough seconds in the delay for perfection. Seriously, though, in the middle of a battle like this, do you really think anyone's going to be paying attention to a mishap with the camera angle used? Uh, no.

There's another cannon―the District Two boy's―and another, Ellink's.

My heart is pounding so loudly just _watching _that I'm unable to help but pick up the AT and pull up the tributes' health levels for those still in this battle. All have a heart rate of at least a hundred and forty-five. Fear―no, terror. Adrenaline. Exertion.

I set the tablet down again, a bit too loudly―_clang!_—but no one seems to notice. I go back to watching, just in time to see what's left of the Alliance of the Mockingjays get cornered by the remaining Career pack. _Boom!_—there's a cannon―Newcomb's.

The action seems to decline, as the Ten girl sprints off, not even bothering to try and salvage any supplies or weapons. The Careers stay behind, and some of the tension here in the room eases.

**.**

But it's back the next day; we're mostly showing the Careers trying to hunt down the object in their section while Francisco and I edit clips of the others―tributes and alliances―to show later. Ionia seems to be in charge of the pack, but it's the Two girl who leads them up the cliff, which makes me wonder if the object's hiding place is too obvious.

Lavender joins us in the FCR―Final Cut Room―where most of us are gathered, even those just watching―except for Thespian; he's off inserting commentary.

And it takes me a second, but then I realize what she's so concerned about. "The construction zone," I whisper at the screen, watching the Careers try to figure out the decoy's message. This is the closest any tribute's gotten to one of the construction areas―the one inside this cliff, another under Section Four, one in the mountains of the third.

Then I'm focusing on the books again, and how I wish we could see what's inside of them; but Lavender previews _and _edits all that herself. I'm just getting around to wondering if she's going to take over the film now when the Careers get inside the cave with the real object.

Our Head Gamemaker turns on Glisten when we all see, on one of the alternate camera views, a glimpse of the tunnel. "You told me that was taken care of." Her voice is so cold it's almost flat, and Glisten just sort of stands there, stammering, while Lavender says, "Kaye. Get me an AT and for Panem's sake, _please _tell me the bouncing mutt's ready for more action."

Kaye nods and hands her the tablet.

I lose track of what buttons are pressed until I hear, "Intended target?" spoken in the mechanical voice of the AT.

Lavender holds down the speaker button. "District One." _What? _I jump out of my seat―kind of wanting to keep my job―as she sits at the film editing station. All you see now is the Careers getting out of the way as the bouncing mutt barges in. That's all everyone outside of us and _very _high-up government officials will see, but they can be a bit uptight. _Still too close._

The Head Gamemaker stops on her way out, lingering in the doorway. "Show them what Kizzy's up to while you finish the edits. I'll talk to Paylor about all of us being alive tomorrow."

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	6. Alone

_Alone_

_(adjective; isolated and lonely)_

_"Glisten" Clarissa Navdeep, Gamemaker, Trap Designer_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"Could you really do that; get the air flow so _centered _in one direction?" Ritter asks me, and I shrug.

"Depends on what you were thinking. Might be more Misty's specialty, if you ask me."

My desk beeps, but I'm not really paying attention. "What sort of material is it, for the edges?"

"Dunno. I was waiting to see what budget we got approved. We used an awful lot for this year." I nod; my desk beeps again, louder. I continue to ignore it, but Ritter seems on-edge, his head cocked to one side in question, setting his spiked orange-brown hair slightly off-balance. Sighing, I glance at the new window.

_Viewing Room. NOW._

No time to check the sender, but I'd bet my job it's Lavender. At the doorway, I call back to Ritter, "Viewing Room!" He follows.

For once we're among the first there, Lavender and Rainshadow already settled in and Misty seeming she just got here. On the main screen is what we have to be showing about-live, though Lavender has her hand hovering over a button to switch over to Namitha. I can't blame her; Panem only knows what Cala might blurt out―_Cala! _My thoughts tumble over each other in a race to form a coherent sentence when the scene finally registers. Nine-Twelve is drowning.

It's weird, how fast I can feel the tears burning in the back of my eyes, but I don't know why they're there. I don't―didn't―want Cala to win, but… but she's just so _hopeless_, and was right from the start, that you can't help feeling bad for her… she's just a kid, she deserves better than this! Never, in all my twenty-seven years, have I seen such a doomed tribute.

But what's really getting me is the storm, because that… that can only be Misty's work. That's definitely out of the norm, targetting a tribute like Cala.

I think we're all here now, and I take a step back, feeling a bit like I'm drowning, myself. We watch. Even Thespian doesn't comment. Sometimes, there isn't anything left to say.

Cala just keeps screaming, never stopping when she's above water, for someone named Kane, for help, for her ally. And Lina does too, mostly for Cala. I'm just _really _hoping that she thinks it's for her ally's benefit, and she's not seriously calling for help from someone that's gone so far off the deep end. _How appropriate._

I don't want to watch this, but I can't tear my eyes away, either. Lavender has, looking down at the tablet still in her hand; Kaye has her face turned into Thespian's shoulder. I grab Ritter's hand and hold it just a bit too tightly, not looking at him.

No one else could understand this moment, and what it feels like. _I'm _not even sure what it is. It's half remorseful, half tragic. Not to mention the fact that we're just watching is _sick_. Meanwhile, a fourteen-year-old girl is still experiencing what I think is the worst sort of death, a slow and growing pain until you give up.

The tears don't build slowly, they overflow.

And in this one moment, I think of Misty, always so agreeable but divorced twice; of Thespian and Kaye, always friendly but never talking to anyone outside work. And Francisco, pulled out of District Five, Lavender rushed through school to be Head Gamemaker. Outside of this room, no one can ever matter, and no one can know who we really are.

We are the Gamemakers, the ones who have only each other. Like a really, really crazy family―talk about dysfunctional.

I cringe and close my eyes as Lavender presses a different button on the tablet, and a cannon fires. It's over. I should be relieved. I shouldn't feel this choked and trapped. We should be celebrating being that much closer to the end of the Games, not mourning another child's death which we caused.

"It isn't fair," Rainshadow whispers, choked. "Damn it, it just isn't _fair_!"

Silence acknowledges the words that none of us can say aloud, and it takes me a few minutes to be able to focus my eyes on something again. When I do, it's still creepily quiet, and I'm far from the only person with tears on my face.

Finally, Kaye looks up a bit blearily, and I let go of Ritter's hand. I know that in a few minutes, we'll be back to doing what we all do best.

I spot Lavender slowly looking up from the tablet again, and I get the vibe that she's bracing herself for one of her pep talks. Sure enough, the next thing I hear is softly spoken: "There's nothing we can do now." She takes a few steps forwards, echoing, and turns, seeming to examine our state. I suddenly feel a lot more self-concious of what just happened, even if I'm not sure what it was.

I try to listen, try to let the gentle tone help me forget. "Remember, Panem doesn't ask us to be happy; it asks us to be brilliant." I have to watch the floor as her eyes sweep the room. "And that's what we'll do for them. We'll… we'll do our job, and―" Even her voice breaks for a moment. "And we'll _be_ brilliant at it.

"That's what we're good at. All of us."

She starts the Circle first, reaching for the hands of the two closest to her―Rainshadow and Thespian, who continue it with Kaye and Misty, then Francisco and me and Ritter. The familiarity of the little Circle of all of us is oddly calming. I breathe. So does everyone else, and we all look at Lavender, waiting for her to continue.

"And Panem help us, we've only started."

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	7. Determined

_Determined_

_(adjective; processing or displaying resolve)_

_Francisco Clandestine, Gamemaker, Engineer and Technician_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"And what about the girl from Six?"

"What about her?" I ask, watching the pitch indicators on the screen.

"She didn't have any allies."

I know that it's pretty much Rainshadow's job to sit next to me and point out my mistakes, but it can get _really_ annoying. She blinks innocently.

"Projection," I decide finally, grinding the words out and sounding almost bored. "Like the ghosts, but the other tributes. Fighting around her."

"Can we get it done in time?"

"Not if you don't shut up for a few minutes. Here, _you_ try to get the pitches right. I'm getting the visuals to scan from Lavender." I stand and head for the door. "Just do it, so we can keep our jobs."

"You're not concerned about your job," she teases, dark blue eyes shining to match the rest of her appearance. "Everyone knows you're out for Lavender's."

"I won't deny it," I answer, and the words come out in a drawl. I can't help kind of smiling a bit. "I know what I'm doing."

I leave, head for Misty's office first, because I don't feel like tracking down the Head Gamemaker, and the only person guaranteed to know where she is at any given time is Misty.

Her office is the polar opposite of mine, with all the non-harsh lights on, door wide open, sunlight streaming in through the windows. I really don't get the poetic types, but I liked working for her more than I do for Lavender. Maybe I just don't like having a teenage girl in her first year as a Gamemaker, almost ten years younger than me, in charge. Or maybe Misty's just sane enough that she wouldn't have announced a crazy idea for night four of the Games with almost no warning.

I glance at the flashing stats and storm model on the screen that's pulled up. "Know where Lav is?" _Great_, Thespian's nickname-using is rubbing off on me. Soon I'll be comparing people to tributes like him, too.

"She should be in her office, Francisco," Misty says, turning to face me.

"Great. Thanks." I turn and set out again.

I get a very different greeting from Lavender. "_What?_"

"Nice to see you, too. I need the tribute visuals for tonight."

"_Fine_." She pulls the papers out from under a montage of other items on her desk and hands them to me.

"Now, was that so hard?" I ask her, like I'm talking to a little kid. She glares at me, and I know I'm not going to get an answer, so I leave, determined to actually get something done on-schedule.

Rainshadow looks up when I come back into the editing room, and says, "I think the pitches are fine, but the radio transmission is a bit off according to this." She gestures to a text box on the screen and I watch it for a minute.

"Eh. It's okay."

She shrugs. "Whatever you say."

I scan all of the tribute visuals, pull up clips from earlier in the Games and adjust the dimensions accordingly, edit the color scheme to be the sort of pale blue we decided on, the wispy air of the ghosts. I have to export all of it to get it into the stop-motion editor, and, slide by slide, create the battle. I don't know how much of it we're actually going to need, just how fast these tributes work, so I create about fifteen minutes worth of "footage" and then just loop it, export again to the transmitter and save.

At one point when I'm giving it a final run through, Rainshadow looks up from the voice-editor―working on the overlap for the Alliance of the Mockingjays, I think―and says, "Could you stop being the dark and silent type for a minute?"

"What?"

"And at least _pretend _you're trying to be social―"

"I'm sorry?"

"Maybe say something for once…"

I'm not even sure how to answer, and she's talking so quickly besides that I'm not even sure I heard right. What comes out is, "Like what?"

"'_Speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again._'"

"What in Panem is that supposed to mean?" I demand, because really, this is getting dumb.

"You need to read up on your quotes."

"I would if I weren't busy with all of th―"

Thespian walks in. "And how _are _things here coming along?" he asks, pretending he can understand what's on our screens when he looks at them.

"_Fine_," I answer immediately, scowling.

"You remind me of Lav more and more every day. And Kizzy."

"No," Rainshadow puts in, "I don't think Kizzy's the right comparison. Maybe one of the Careers?"

"What about Eight?" Thespian suggests.

"Or―"

"Am I the only person here with a focus span?" I ask, unintentionally hitting a few buttons on the control panel. I have the feeling I'm probably glaring at them, but that's normal, even if the amount of talking I've actually done today isn't. "We still have work to do," I say, calmer.

In a few minutes, Thespian leaves, and Rainshadow doesn't push the talking issue again. I've sort of learned that if you want work done, and done right, you have to do it yourself. So I do a lot over the next few hours, and check over everything at least three times when we send it to the new server set up for tonight.

When the information's out of our hands, and there's nothing left we can do, I lean back in my chair, remember to exhale for the first time since this morning. The fact that even this part of the final battle is ready should be considered a miracle. I have a headache from staring at the screen so long, but some part of me is glad enough that it's over.

But it's not over. It's never over.

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"_You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view…"_

–_Harper Lee_


	8. Free

_Free_

_(adjective; able to act as one wishes)_

_Lavender Maynor "Flame", Head Gamemaker_

_. . . . . . . . . ._

It's nearing day three, but not of the Games. I mean, it's been three days since I left my makeshift living quarters at the Gamemaking Center. I should stop hiding and face the cameras, the reporters behind them. But I don't want to; I feel trapped and imprisoned, though I'm just the opposite. The Games are over, yet they've just begun.

My focus span has been so flighty over the last few days that my main project has faded to figuring out what's wrong with me; or, how to describe it. The problem, I think, is _me_. So that provides a whole different list of adjectives. _Gamemaker _is the first one that comes to mind. So how do you describe a Gamemaker?

I let my eyes close, fumble with the drawer in my nightside table for an AT.

I'm not completely aware of pulling up a fresh document, but I write:

_-killer_

_-crazy_

_-alone/isolated_

_-just trying to stay alive like everyone else_

It doesn't work for me. I sigh, save it, and set the AT down.

Finally, I stay on one train of thought long enough to realize that the lights in the "bedroom" are still off, casting odd gray shadows on the floor, unshifting. The awful view this offers tempts me too much, and I pick up the AT again, go through the applications until I find the right one, pull it up, activate it. The video walls slowly come to life with the next arena, a welcome distraction.

_What's wrong with this?_

I look around, and for a while I'm just going through the motions, exploring the place I know all too well and making a few notes.

In the end, I shut it down, and try to breathe.

The first day I started this, just after the Games, the breakdowns came twice―for the children, for the families, for everyone who just _can't _understand. Now I calm quicker, and just as I'm wondering what my next move is, my night table rings. It goes to my inbox before I even look at it.

I see that the sender's Misty, so I read it.

_The fear is here_

_The time is near,_

_Why can't they see_

_It looming?_

_To win, to lose_

_The Game is yours_

_Playing the day_

_Away._

At first, I think I get it, then don't. I sit for a long time and stare at the words until they blur together, whispering them over and over so they overlap, stirring in a pool of answers.

When I understand, I decide it's time.

**.**

I put on my most convincing smile for everyone and set out to find the team. Still, I'm thankful that the hallways are empty. Ominous? Yes. But it gives me a few moments to think, to figure out what I'm going to say, how I'm going to play the next round in a game that never ends.

We're always so in control of that little game, always in posession of all the cards. Except when we're not.

Eventually I run into one of the interns, who tells me that everyone's in one of the conference rooms on the ground floor. I pray that there's not actually a meeting going on and head for the elevators.

It turns out that I don't have to worry about finding the right room―the first door in the right-side hall is wide open, a fair amount of noise coming out. I inhale once but don't breathe out and linger in the doorway for a second, smiling at the scene. The feeling is different; I feel light and airy, elevated in the sky. … Maybe someone just found a way to decrease the gravity in the building. I wouldn't put it past us.

"And Ms. Head Gamemaker is here at last!" I hear Thespian announce, snapping me out of my little daze. In seconds the room engulfs me as I accept everyone's hugs and congratulations―even from Francisco, a real shocker.

Finally I manage to reach my spot at what's sort of the head of the table and fall into my seat. I try to calm my nerves enough to tell myself that if no one's mentioned my disappearance by now, it's not going to come up at all.

The little celebration is good as a distraction.

"Lavender, do you have any _idea_ how many _peopl_e have been looking for you?" Rainshadow asks at one point, quick as always. "Honestly―how many was it, Misty? Fifteen, twenty, _easy_! Half the Capitol's reporters must've been here."

"Certainly close to thirty," Misty supplies.

I take a deep breath. "I'll take care of that later."

I'm used to being at the front of the meetings, the leader, the public figure, even. But socially? I really don't talk to anyone when I don't have to, except for family and the other Gamemakers on the rare, less work-oriented occasions. So this is wavering on the edge of my comfort zone. _Everyone_ wants to talk to me, and I can imagine that it's not just happening inside of this room.

Kaye is showing me new ideas for the next Games―mutts that even I would've never dreamed of―and at the same time Rainshadow is still talking about how we're all _somebody _now, and when I glance up Misty gives me a sort of knowing look. I nod at her. She knows.

Thespian holds up the water bottle in his hand. "I'd like to propose a toast," he says dramatically. Everyone else raises their own beverages, and I have to give in, doing so as well. "To you," he adds, gesturing to me, and then he booms, "And to victory!" This opens up the onslaught of other answers.

"To the Hunger Games!" adds Kaye.

"To still having jobs and being alive!"

I can't help but laugh, some of my thoughts from earlier coming back. There really aren't words to describe our little group.

I raise my own water bottle. "To us."

"To us," everyone echoes, and the toasting ends.

As I manage to breathe in again, I'm thinking of my list from earlier and shaking my head to myself.

Sometimes, I think there just aren't words, _To Describe a Gamemaker._

**END**


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